I have not time nor space to illustrate in minute detail the truth and importance of the application of this law to art-forms. But I may take one concrete instance of its existence and inevitableness, and of the growth and progress that result whenever the artist happens to work under its guidance. I have within recent months seen the existence of this law and traced the course of its working in the studies of a new and comparatively unknown comer in the world of painting. Here is a painter, Clarence E. King by name, who is undoubtedly working out his high destiny in terms of Art, at the bidding of a force to whose direction he is willing to surrender himself. And he surrenders himself not because he has no judgment, no discriminating sense of his own, but because he believes that the true artist works without volition. I know very little about Mr. King’s first experiences, but I can quite imagine that art-expression came to him as a bewildered dream. Perhaps he felt instinctively it was but an imaginary magician’s wand and the effect it ever sought to produce was far above the limited measure of the artist’s dead materials. It was an effect that could only be attained in one way, not by stone, wood, or canvas, but by direct surrender to its livingness. I remember once receiving a letter from Mr. King in which he hinted at some such transcendental vision of Art and indicated its difficulties—both aesthetic and economic. The latter will be seen to be very real when I say that Mr. King is a poor man, that he has to engage in a mechanical form of occupation which constantly opposes him with the dread of losing guidance and his real purpose, and of falling under the subjection of aims and methods entirely opposed to his own. From the letter I learned that he began with a longing to attain the maximum intensity of expression and he has ever since been impelled irresistibly towards this end. But the path was not easy, for it seems he became aware at an early period of the small measure of expression in the painter’s dead materials. He relates how one day he took his colors into the sun so that they should rival its livingness. But when he looked at them (in the light of the sun) they were dead. Then he bought the most expensive paint, he kept his palette clean, he slept in the open, watched the sunrise, absorbed its magic, and prepared himself and his materials in every way, as he thought, to express the fluid character of the experience flowing through him. He grappled with powerful feelings and sought to fix them in form. To no purpose. Apparently there was a point beyond which paint, like words, could not go. The fault, however, was not altogether in the materials. The artist too was to blame. He was a boy strenuously striving to transcend representative forms. But in doing so he neglected one thing. He made no attempt to escape from the illusion of volume and solidity contained in solid space. In other words